


Just Another Graceless Night

by vellaphoria



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Multi, Shenanigans, barely edited | we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 00:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20480123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vellaphoria/pseuds/vellaphoria
Summary: One-shot prompt fills from tumblr.1.Someonesends Tim an ostentatious cape (DickTim)2. Tim and Pru escape a sticky situation (Tim & Pru, Pre-Deadfall)





	1. Accidental Cape Acquisition (DickTim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Tim (not Red Robin) owning a cape!"

“I kind of want to ask, but I don’t think I want to know.”

Tim runs the edges of the cape through his hands, pulling the kinks out of the fabric.

“What,” he asks, turning to Dick. “You don’t get the reference?”

In the mirror, the cape’s reflection swishes along with it. A few tufts of cheap black velvet shake loose and drift to the floor. One ear of the plastic Batman mask Tim is wearing is longer than the other.

The look Dick gives him tells Tim that the question won’t be dignified with a response.

As if he can talk.

It isn’t that Dick _didn’t_ put a lot of time into his costume. He _definitely _did. But the red wig, green lipstick, and gauzy, see-through leotard _barely _covered with leaves where it counts…

Well, the paparazzi’s going to have a field day with that one.

Tim just shrugs. The cape shrugs with him. Around the ill-fitting, plastic mask, he growls, “because I’m _Batman_,” in his best approximation of the Batsuit’s synths.

Dick, to his credit, _almost_ doesn’t laugh at it.

And then almost immediately doubles over, done in by laughing.

“He’s _actually _going to kill you. You know that, right?” he manages to get out between bouts of it.

“Oh, I know. But I have to do _something_ to get back at him for trying to bench me from patrol.”

_That_ sobers Dick up.

“Tim,” he starts. “Last week you forgot to take your meds and _literally _almost got sepsis. You should be happy we’re even letting you go to _this._”

Tim scowls at him. He hopes Dick appreciates exactly how _unhappy_ he is with this entire development.

“This is why I never come home.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Between one breath and the next, Dick is right next to him, hugging him. Tim’s face gets crushed against flimsy gauze and toned muscle.

Eventually, Tim resigns himself to his fate and hugs back.

“Calm down,” he mumbles against Dick’s chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Dick squeezes him a little tighter. “Good.”

Tim lets him have it, but after a minute he pushes away. Better to extract himself before Dick can go full octopus mode on him.

“Come on,” he says, “we’re gonna be late.”

Dick’s smirk is the only warning he gets before he’s being lifted up into the air, into a bridal hold. The cape hangs freely, brushing against Dick’s legs.

“_Really??”_ Tim asks, letting his head fall back in exasperation.

“Really.”

Tim groans. Dick presses a kiss to his forehead, still smirking.

“Besides,” he says, lips moving against Tim’s hairline. “Ivy _carrying_Batman? Please tell me you have someone on retainer to take a picture of his _face_.”

Tim… has to concede that point. He’d thought the picture of his shitty costume would give Bruce an aneurism, so he’d talked Tam into bringing her camera. But Tim’s shitty costume, combined with being carried in by Dick…

Well, the company’s guests will all have a good laugh. So will the civilian-clothes vigilantes who are going to be in attendance, but they’ll be laughing for an _entirely_ different reason.

“Yeah, fine,” Tim relents. “But _only_ until we’re in the room. Got that?”

Dick smiles. There’s something adorably triumphant about it.

“Sure thing,” he says, nudging open the room’s door with his hip.

* * *

The next morning, Tim emerges from a safe house that’s both inexplicably on the other side of Gotham and, even worse, has a doorway facing the rising sun.

He squints against the light, his head pounding. Silently, he swears to himself that he’s never drinking _again_. Or at least not until he and Wayne Tech’s R&D division create some sort of instant hangover cure through the power of chemistry and possibly magic.

That said, he nearly trips over a package on his way to get the newspaper.

Huh. Tim bends down, inspecting the area.

Once he’s sufficiently confident that there are no traps that’ll activate if he moves it, he picks it up, tucking it under one arm. The newspaper he rolls into a tube, shoving it, too, under his arm as he locks the door.

First, he walks through the apartment to the bedroom, tossing the newspaper in a graceful arc. It lands on Dick’s face with a firm _smack_.

The headline reads “WE Halloween Gala,” but the really interesting part is the nearly full-page picture of Dick and Tim’s entrance to the party. They took the shot at the perfect time, too. In the picture, Bruce is mid-turn. He has a single eyebrow arched incredulously. His drink is halfway between his hand and the floor, and people who know him outside of his corporate playboy persona will understand that particular quirk of his frown to mean that he’s frustrated he can’t catch it before it hits the ground. Or, batman could catch it. But Brucie Wayne could never.

The groan of a very hungover man creeps out from under it, adding emphasis to the _very_ interesting front page cover.

“Mission accomplished,” Tim says, leaving Dick to the process of waking up with a splitting headache.

He takes the package to the hidden workshop he keeps behind a false panel in the hallway and gets to work.

Fifteen minutes in, he’s determined it isn’t a bomb and doesn’t contain any recognizable poison There is no return address, but the safehouse’s address is written in flowing, familiar handwriting.

The recipient is listed as “Timothy Drake.”

With a resigned sigh, Tim reaches for the nearest batarang-turned-boxcutter. It’s sharp enough to split only the tape open, leaving the box undamaged.

He flicks open the lid. There’s a note on top, written on what looks like high-quality recycled paper. It reads:

_‘While your attempt at fashion is refreshing, your approach lacks a certain verve. It is my hope that this will remedy the situation before we next meet.’_

Which. _Seriously?_

Tim tosses the note across the workbench and tips the box over. What seems like _miles_ of green fabric spill out of it, the fabric sighing as it brushes against itself before landing in a pile on the table.

Tim picks it up.

Unfurled, Tim finds himself holding what looks like a cape made for someone his size. It’s aggressively green, with gold embroidery all along its edges.

Somehow, Tim isn’t even surprised.

The workshop’s door opens, and Dick steps through. He’s put on pants and a shirt since Tim last saw him, but his eyes seem bleary as he takes in the scene in front of him.

“…what.” Dick says. It isn’t a question.

“_Someone_ saw last night’s news,” Tim responds, distractedly. The fabric quality on this thing is _insane_. Can’t have been cheap…

“Is that from – ?” Dick presses.

“_Apparently_.”

Dick takes a step towards the workbench and picks up the discarded note. He gives it a once-over before crumpling it in his fist.

The look he gives Tim is appraising, then proprietary.

“… please tell me you’re not actually going to wear that?”

Tim only laughs.

* * *

Later, he tries it on anyway.

...he doesn’t want to know how Ra’s got his measurements.


	2. Cliff Diving (Pre-Deadfall, Tim & Pru)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I was thinking something from Deadfall verse, maybe a moment from the year where Tim and Pru were working together, such as them escaping a near-death experience and/or learning lessons from each other?"

Red Robin ducks behind a tree just in time to watch a volley of bullets _shred_ the curtain of vines hanging from it.

“Fuck!” Pru shouts, off to his ten. Followed by the very distinctive sound of bullets hitting rock.

Somewhere behind him, about seventy feet off, someone is crashing through the underbrush. Multiple someones. Maybe even an entire camp of them.

The other side of the tree shudders with the solid _thunk thunk thunk_ of semiautomatic weapon fire embedding in wood.

Red swears under his breath and drops to a crouch. From here, he can just see Pru pop out from behind a large rock, returning fire for all of two seconds before another volley sends her ducking back behind it.

“They’re up here,” someone shouts. They’re closer than the rest. “I’m going in!”

Red grits his teeth. Sometimes he really hates overachievers. _Especially_ when they’re trying to flush him out. But the tree is wide, Red’s been trained by some of the world’s foremost fighters, and despite being in a jungle _full_ of coffee plants he has _not_ had enough caffeine to be doing this at barely-dawn o’clock in the goddamn morning.

Asshole Poacher Number One jumps around the corner of the tree like Red hadn’t heard him coming a mile away, brandishing his gun. Well, ‘brandishing’ is a strong term that implies it stayed in his hand for more than half a second. Before he even sees what hits him, Red is beneath his guard and sweeping his feet out from under him with a quick flick of his _bo_ staff. The man hits the ground hard, crying out in surprise at the suddenness of it.

Red is on him before he’s even got his mouth closed. Knee to the gut, knocking the air out of him. Nondominant arm pinned. The gun and the hand holding shoved to the ground so sharply that Red notes the satisfying _crack_ from the man’s trigger finger.

Shows him for trying to bring a gun to a vigilante fight.

“Who the _fuck – “ _is all the guy manages to get out before Red’s delivering a quick, hard blow to his temple. It isn’t fancy, but it gets the job done and puts the guy out like a light. He’s only got time to pull him behind the tree – somewhere his poacher friends won’t shoot him by accident - before taking off.

They’ll find him eventually. Probably. Red has more important things to think about.

He darts across the clearing, the movement drawing fire. Red ducks under it, rolling the last of the space until he’s shoving Pru farther to the center of the rock and crouching down with her.

She’s a bit worse for wear. Red sees more dirt and blood than pale skin, and there’s a nasty-looking cut on her forehead, just above her eyebrow. She’ll need stitches later.

“This is _your _fault,” she says. The glare she throws at Red is hotter than this godforsaken jungle.

“Nice to see you too,” he counters. “But I distinctly recall _you_ being the one who told their leader to, and I quote, ‘go taxidermy the Jaguar he’d killed and suck it off while it’s still soaking in embalming fluid.’”

“_What?_” Pru hisses. “_You_ try comin’ up with better material at the asscrack of dawn, Birdbrain.”

“That’s _not _the point! You _purposefully_ antagonized an unstable _lunatic_, and for what? _This?_ There’s an _entire_ camp of poachers trying to _kill _us_.”_

_“_Not now,” Pru says, grabbing Red by the halter of his uniform. She pulls him close enough that the spittle flying from her hiss of frustration peppers his face. Red tries to push her off, but she’s got all the leverage. “We’ve got to find a way to fucking _salvage_ this. Unless you want _Him_ coming down here personally?”

“Somehow, I think that’d end up worse for _you_,” Red says, even as he gets ready to go along with whatever doubtlessly _ridiculous_ plan she comes up with.. Pru’s got a point, and he doesn’t _particularly _want to have to talk shop with Ra’s today. Or any day, for that matter.

“Put a lid on it, Red,” Pru mutters, shoving him out of the way to poke her head around the side of the boulder. She yanks it back quickly, just barely missing being clipped by more gunfire.

“Over here!” Someone – probably whoever just shot at her – shouts. More crashing. Red counts five, maybe six more of the poachers breaking through the underbrush, drawn by the alert. All armed, he’d bet.

“_Shite_,” Pru mutters, darkly. They’re going to be surrounded if they don’t do something _soon_.

“Today is a good day to die?” Tim asks, pressing his back against the boulder.

She gives him a look that loosely translates to ‘I know you’re quoting Star Trek but if you don’t stop it right this instant you won’t live long _or_ prosper.’

Red returns the look blankly.

“Fuck that.” Pru throws her arm out, angling it to shoot blindly around the rock. In the distance, someone shouts in pain. _Huh. She actually managed to hit someone_.

“I ain’t dyin’ today, and neither are you. So, shove your fatalistic shite right up your ass and help me get us the fuck _out_ of this bloody mess.”

He stares at Pru. Pru stares back, unwavering.

Red looks away first. “_Fine._”

“Good. Now, how the hell are we getting out of this? Put that freakishly efficient brain of yours to good use and start improvising.”

Pru returns fire once more. They’re almost on them.

Well, okay then.

Red draws a deep breath, closes his eyes, and listens. The hard-packed earth beneath him and the smell of the nearby ocean fade out until he can focus on the task at hand. Specifically, the seven... or it it nine? Ten? _Shit_, there are more of them – poachers fanned out around the rock he and Pru are hiding behind. They’re in a loose half-circle that widens each time the ones on the end inch closer to being able to riddle Red and Pru with bullet holes.

Not much time to act, and if they’re going to get out of this, they’re _going_ to have to act.

To his left, a twig snaps beneath the heavy tread of a lead-lined toe.

“You want a plan?” Red mutters, reaching up to grip Pru’s shoulder tight enough to bruise. “Fuck salvaging this. Here’s the plan. We _run!_” He shoves her forward, forcing Pru’s training to kick in. In a second, she’s on her feet and they’re _tearing_ through the trees, ducking and weaving.

An outraged shout goes up behind them, chased by gunfire. An errant bullet clips Red’s shoulder, but he swallows the sharp, searing pain and pushing himself faster.

Pru keeps pace well enough, but the poachers are barely steps behind. Shooting and running isn’t the most accurate thing in the world, but if the maps of the area Red had memorized are accurate, then there should be …

“There!” He doesn’t bother pointing. Instead he just shoves Pru in a roughly south-western heading and goes on running.

She keeps up.

By virtue of their numbers, the poachers are gaining.

But not fast enough.

Their saving grace is that he and Pru, unlike the poachers, actually came to this party ready to rumble. Their adequately laced combat boots carry them much faster than the poachers’ quickly thrown on ones can match. Their uniforms for the mission – Pru’s dark camo fatigues and his own stealth-mode Red Robin uniform – make them hard to see, even with the pace they’re moving at.

But the poachers know this area of the jungle inside and out. It’s the textbook definition of home-field advantage, and Red doesn’t want to trust their equipment and luck any more than he has to.

The underbrush thins. As they run, the trees become increasingly farther apart. To their side, the edge of the treelined materializes into a cliff jutting out far over the Pacific Ocean.

“Pru!” Red shouts.

“_What_ – “

It’s all she gets out before Red _tackles her_, sending the two of them into a forward roll.

And right off the cliff.

The rest of Pru’s doubtlessly curse-laden response is lost to a terrified, wordless scream as she and Red fall through the open air.

The ocean rushes up to meet them.

In the space of a second, Tim shifts Pru so he has an arm around her torso. With the other, he reaches up and –

At the last possible moment of freefall, his cape flares _out_, catching the wind and transferring their downward momentum into a sharp, outward glide.

By the time he gets his other arm around her, Pru is still screaming.

With words, this time.

“_WHAT THE FUCK YOU FUCKING – “_

And Red tunes her out. She’s not going to be helpful anytime soon.

Somewhere behind them is the distant shouting of the poachers and the sound of gunfire. Red hears a single impact the kevlar weave before he calculates that they’ve left the poachers’ range.

When he’s far enough out, he drops Pru without ceremony, pulling in on his cape and splashing down into the water.

For what’s probably the thousandth time, he’s thankful Batman made him spend all that time swimming in costume.

With an aggressive splash, Pru surfaces ten feet in front of him.

The rage in her eyes is hot enough that he’s almost surprised the water around her isn’t boiling.

“What. The. _Fuck._ Was. _That?_”

“Improvising.”

For a moment, she really looks like she’s going to pull her gun out of the water and try shooting him with it.

It’s very possible that the only thing that saves Red is the comm links in both their ears chiming at once.

Pru’s expression shifts from outrage to terror faster than Red can blink.

Before she has a chance to answer, Red raises his hands to his own – thankfully waterproof – earpiece and presses the button to answer.

“_Detective_.” Ra’s voice curls through the speaker. From Pru’s face, she’s hearing this too.

“Ra’s.” Red meets Pru’s death glare.

“My agents in the area tell me they heard gunfire. Report.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Red answers, trying to keep the smug out of his voice. “The poachers just got a little trigger-happy.”

“I assume you’ve _disposed_ of them?”

“Even better. Their vehicles now have trackers broadcasting live satellite data with their location and their owners’ warrants from countries across the continent. Interpol will be on their way to arrest them in three, two, one…”

Red looks down, pulling his other arm out of the water. On the screen embedded in it, a light switch from red to green. The accompanying message confirms that his contacts in Interpol – a small network he’d built since getting kicked out of Gotham and doing this _international vigilantism_ thing full time – have received the message and are on their way.

“… now.” Red smirks across the water at Pru. She looks back incredulously.

“Need I remind you that the objective was to _eliminate_ the threat?” Ra’s tone is as dry as the grasslands surrounding the Cradle.

“And I did.”

“Arrest is _not_ an efficient method of – “

“Sorry, Ra’s,” Red pulls the earpiece out. “You’re breaking up.”

“Do _not – _“

Whatever Ra’s says next fades from Red’s hearing as he tosses the earpiece to where Pru is floating. Lightening quick, she reaches up to catch it, pocketing it in one of the compartments on her vest that’s currently out of the water. Hopefully, it’s insulated from water damage.

She glares at him for a solid minute before she finally speaks.

“You _bloody bastard,_” Pru says. She sounds angry, but Red can see a smile beginning to break across her face. “You’re absolutely _insane_.”

For what feels like the first time in the last few months, Red smiles.

“Without a doubt.”


End file.
